Epilogue: Sweetness Follows
by KittenRage
Summary: Beginning in a post-Reichenbach AU, John deals with his loss and Sherlock considers his return to 221B. A chaptered work in progress containing fluff, angst and all the feelings.
1. Chapter 1

_I always wonder why did we bother,_  
><em> distanced from one, blind to the other.<em>

_ Oh, but sweetness follows._

_-REM_

Finally, after so many moments of running, John stopped. He stood in the doorway of their flat and let the cold water of doubt rush over him. He couldn't move, he couldn't think. There was nothing there for him but an overwhelming sense of self-despair and lingering moments, ended all too soon. He gasped for air, unaware that his breath had been held. John closed his eyes and counted.

_One…_

_Two…_

_Three…_

With that third beat still ringing in his mind, he turned the doorknob and entered the flat. It was cold and dusty, and he couldn't believe that only hours before he'd sat in those chairs, heard that voice.

He turned and saw Sherlock, shadowed, standing by the door to his room.

"You're late John."

_I was worried… Was I? How interesting._

"I couldn't… I couldn't come sooner."

John sighed and fell into his favourite chair, relief overcoming him as his legs shook and he fought to keep the cry from escaping his lips. His shoulders shuddered as Sherlock watched, walking gracefully on steady legs to the window.

"He's coming for you, but you already know that, don't you?" John let his fury colour his words as he spat them out, feeling the blood drain from his already pale face.

"I'm aware."

Sherlock said nothing more, continuing his disinterested stare out the window, watching life progress as usual on the streets. Cabs to catch, biscuits to buy, people to see. _People_. He disliked them almost as much as they disliked him.

Excepting John. No, he was unique.

How remarkable.

John watched his shoulders rise and fall, so steady, so sure in what was about to happen. It was almost as if he didn't care, didn't mind leaving, accepted his eminent and early death. John hated it, hated his cold certainty and his willingness to go down fighting. Most of all, he hated how much he loved this cruel, wonderful man.

"You can't leave." He was on his feet before he knew it, closing the gap between them in moments. "I won't let you. You can't. Call Mycroft, I don't care."

But that was the thing. He did care. More than he would admit. John flexed his still hand and debated turning Sherlock around by force and shaking him until he understood just why he couldn't chase Moriarty to the ends of the earth.

Before he had even laid a hand on the detective's shoulder, Sherlock turned. They were now standing face to face, and John couldn't read the expression in Sherlock's green eyes.

"Please. You can't leave. London needs you."

Sherlock smiled. "I doubt that."

"I need you." Those words caught in John's throat and once again he let out a stilted breath he hadn't been aware of holding.

The ice in Sherlock's eyes melted as he closed the gap between them, lips brushing John's before he had a chance to react. John's eyes closed and he shivered, uncomprehending that this was goodbye.

Sherlock pulled back and John felt his last nerve break as the detective strode out of 221B, coat swirling and face masking some pain he hadn't known he possessed.

John ran for a cab and sat with shaking hands in the back, reaching into his coat for his ever-present gun, hand grasping a soft envelope instead.

_My dearest John_, it began.

And in the back of that cab, far from Sherlock Holmes, John Watson cried.

Months went by, and Sherlock's blood slowly washed out of the concrete outside of St. Bart's. Like it had never happened.

And no matter how hard he tried, John couldn't wash the memory of that bloodstained face out of his mind. Every time he closed his eyes, there he was.

There were no more dreams about the war, no.

Only falling.

_One year later._

She slid into the vinyl booth, jeans squeaking on the orange plastic as she moved her thin legs, crossing them once, then twice. Her long fingers toyed with a single ring on her pinky that glinted in what little light the diner lamp bequeathed. The restaurant was quiet, old Christmas carols playing murkily even though it was already mid-January. They hadn't noticed the shift in seasons, no-one came here anyway.

She ordered a large chips and paid at the counter with tattered bills, worrying at a hangnail on her thumb. Her slender shape was barely noticeable, the kind of person who could disappear when no longer thought of, vanishing into a thin mist. Being anonymous suited her. Attention was never deemed a necessity.

Returning to her booth, she dipped a chip into a sticky ketchup substance, dousing it once with vinegar and then focusing on her task until every last morsel was complete. Her long brown hair was pulled into a hasty ponytail, and strands were beginning to fall into her eyes. Molly Hooper didn't notice his presence until a low cough came from the booth across from her. She started.

Sherlock Holmes stood before her, his dark hair and piercing eyes just as she had remembered. He looked thinner, and there was a fatigue she couldn't understand that resided in the set of his mouth, the lean in his gait.

"It's not right for you to creep up on me like that." Her voice was tired, and quieter than he was used to.

"You were waiting for me, where you not, Molly?" his voice was low, and smooth, black like a panther.

"Of course. You know I do, every Thursday since you said you weren't okay."

She swallowed, nervous that he'd thought her overbearing or ditzy. For all of her quiet awkwardness, Molly was anything but stupid.

"You waited, even though I was dead? Even though you went to the- funeral?" Here his voice caught, but his eyes remained blank, emotionless and icy.

"You told me to. So I did. Friends do that for each other."

"Wait in empty sandwich shops?"

"No, trust. Trusted that you'd keep your word." She smiled, a sad, bitter thing. "And you did."

Sherlock grimaced, obviously uncomfortable being so close to home when he was already so far away. His eyes flashed, mouth twitching. Sherlock was anxious to be gone.

"I have two minutes, tell me everything you know about him." His voice was abrupt, snarky and rude in the quiet post-Christmas atmosphere of the diner.

Molly raised an eyebrow, chewing on her bottom lip. She hadn't waited here every Thursday for a year for nothing. His green eyes met her brown ones and he lowered his gaze to his hands, which played incessantly across the table and curled under his angular chin.

"Please. –I need to know."

She inhaled, knowing that Sherlock needed the truth.

"It's been hard on John. He's not really the same. I look at him sometimes, and he just looks so empty, like he's waiting for someone, something, anything. He's sad when no-one's looking, just like you."

Sherlock stiffened and swallowed the wave of nausea that threatened to overcome him. This was stupid. John was alive and that was all that mattered. Nothing more.

He stood, still missing the high collar and swirl of his old black coat. This jacket was plain, cheap and ill-fitting. He grimaced, feeling the newly formed bruises on his back. Still running. Always running.

Molly was staring at him, her mouth slightly open as if she couldn't believe he was there in front of her.

"You look like death."

Sherlock stared right back.

"I am dead."

She winced, realizing her clumsy mistake. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, I didn't-"

His eyes flashed, that deep proud anger sparking inside him. His words were sharp, pointed.

"Of course you didn't Molly, you never mean it. None of the stupid things you say, rambling on even though no-one's listening. Seems like your cat collection is growing, what is that, two new kittens?"

He paused, looking at the slight scratches on her wrists.

"No, three and a new boyfriend by the looks of it, you've gained two pounds and look! He has a cat too, how fitting. I wish you the best of luck." His voice had risen, angry and sarcastic.

"And you need not wait for me anymore, I won't be coming back. John's better off without me, you all are. You wasted so much time in this damn restaurant. Why would you wait? Any little _feelings_ left?" He spat out the words, gesturing wildly. In the back, the employees watched and decided not to interfere. The Christmas carols grew louder.

He turned to leave, quietly shutting down all of his emotions until there was a blank slate in his mind. A firm hand caught his wrist.

"You aren't leaving before I tell you this, Sherlock Holmes. Friends help friends, and I may not be yours, but you are definitely mine. I don't count, remember? And you're right, John Watson is better off without you because you're rude and arrogant and obnoxious. But you know what? You need him. You say the most awful things, every time. And you _need_ him. When you were together, you were almost human."

His face was blank but his eyes were shocked, uncertain.

"He misses you."

And with that, Molly Hooper turned and walked straight out of that restaurant, not looking back. Her hands brushed the sticky orange booths and her hair blew in the breeze that greeted her in the brisk street. She walked quickly towards the tube, legs shaking after her confrontation.

He was wrong. That was all she could think about. _He was wrong. _More than anything, she knew he wasn't okay in the slightest. Wrong. The word echoed in her mind.

She had yelled at Sherlock Holmes. That was definitely a first. Molly smiled and looked at the dirty pavement, folded her hands in her pockets and waited for the train.

_Wrong._

Back in the restaurant, Sherlock sat in the booth, long fingers toying with a note, hastily slipped in his glove as she left.

_Speedy's Café, 5 pm, Thursday_

_x_

He sipped his black coffee, two sugars, and grimaced. He couldn't run forever.


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson walked slowly up the stairs to his flat, shouldering groceries in one arm, his keys biting his palm. The effort seemed enormous to him. It had been a year, and still he carried on. Sometimes John wondered how his life had become so tragic so fast. One moment, a kiss. The next, a body.

John clenched his jaw. Now was not the time to be thinking about that. Those images were kept securely locked in the back of his mind, always there, quietly bruising. They were for the night, when he lay in bed, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. Sleep was hopeless.

Having successfully unlocked the now chipped black door, John removed his worn shoes and set the groceries down on the table. He didn't bother using the chip and pin machines any more as there was no rush. No, everything had slowed down. It was like living underwater.

Methodically, he took of his coat and put the kettle on, putting out two cups, just like he always did. Sherlock drank his tea black, with sugar. There was always a cup going cold on the counter, in the bedroom, in the kitchen. It was as if the owner had suddenly vanished into thin air, leaving nothing but a mug of lukewarm liquid in his wake.

The kettle boiled and John retired to the sitting room, hands warmed by the blistering hot mug. Sitting in his chair, he faced Sherlock's, admiring its angles and edges and the fact that it never went anywhere. Always there when he got home, always there when he left. Still, it was too quiet. The flat felt empty, even though it was still inhabited. No ghosts in these rooms, just a lonely blogger.

**.**

It had been 168 hours and 10 minutes since he had last seen Molly, since he'd been so angry, so not very good. A week to dwell on that. There wasn't much else to do, as Sherlock spent most of his days hiding out while he stayed in London. While Moriarty may have been dead, his henchmen most definitely weren't. _It was all for John's safety._ He repeated this to himself day after day, _safety safety safety, _until it became a mantra, until he didn't know what it meant anymore. What was this odd promise of comfort? Sherlock's body was numb, immune to cuts and scrapes and the cold. He'd been attacked recently, an average mugging. Nothing affiliated with anyone, but the assault had left him reeling, bloodied and bruised. He couldn't feel it anymore. Numb. _Safety safety safety._

It was 4:59 pm as he sat in Speedy's, just steps away from his old flat, his old life, his old friend. He fidgeted, stirring his coffee with trembling fingers. Sherlock observed his human difficulties. Was it the coffee, the adrenaline that came from being so close? The danger of discovery? No. It was fear. Weakness.

At 5:02 pm, Molly Hooper walked through the door, hair freshly washed and lipstick on. She was flushed, and her eyes darted around as if she dared hope for Sherlock's presence. When she saw him, her gaze hardened and her mouth tightened, but she walked towards him nonetheless.

"Hello, Sherlock." Her tone was formal, suppressing an irritation that was probably due to his harsh words 168 hours and 23 minutes earlier. People seemed to take offense so easily. Molly sat down in the chair across from Sherlock, clasping her hands together, unclasping them and tidying her hair.

"Hello, Molly." He straightened, fingers scattering an open sugar packet across the table. His pale skin was bruised around the knuckles. Sherlock pulled his gloves on, even though it was warm inside the shop. He didn't want her questions. For once, he didn't have answers.

**.**

John stood suddenly, the tea in his cup splashing up on the sides, dampening his hands. He didn't notice but set it down roughly on the coffee table. It was difficult to explain why he felt so upset so suddenly, but then again, he hadn't tried to explain his emotions after... the accident. John straightened and inhaled deeply, trying to find that quiet anchor inside him, when it seemed that everything that constituted John Watson was a hurricane, a vastly raging tempest. He went back to basics, trying to calm his beating heart. Breathing. Inhale. Exhale.

Slowly, his ocean began to calm. His pulse returned to normal, his hands stopped shaking, and he was able to walk to the washroom. He turned on the taps, running his fingers under the lukewarm water, scrubbing the tea off of his sleeve. He splashed some of the water on his face, relishing in the moisture running down his cheeks, not unlike the tears he hadn't shed since the day Sherlock died. Not one tear. For all his quiet infirmities, John Watson did not break down. Not noticeably at least.

He looked in the mirror, seeing his own reflection as if for the first time. His hair had begun to grey, turning silver around the temples. He looked worn, probably due to the extreme lack of sleep. Still, his bright blue eyes remained a fundamentally solid part of him, they always looked back, exactly the same. John liked that. They didn't change, always the same early morning fog, a flat azure.

John moved back into the living room, going over to the window and peering out. It was about 5 pm and the sun was beginning to set, the frost collecting on the window panes in the early January evening. He turned and saw Sherlock's violin, encased in a red velvet-lining. He stared at it, and slowly knelt and unclasped the case, lifting the lid delicately. The violin had not been touched since his death, and John eased it out of the case gently, soft hands caressing the cold wood. He ran his thumb across the strings, once, very lightly. The instrument shuddered in his grasp, as if aware that he wasn't practiced in the art of enchanting music from its resistant strings.

**.**

"You need to go back." Molly was arguing, passionate like Sherlock had never witnessed before. "You need him, and besides, I think he's lonely."

"Think?" Sherlock spoke the word and let it hang in the air between them.

She paused.

"He's alone, of course he's lonely."

_Of course he's lonely. _Sherlock never understood that feeling, never felt anything but enjoyment at the prospect of solitude. More time to think, he supposed. But that was before John. In a way, Sherlock had been so very alone. John had given him so much.

Sherlock ran his gloved finger along the table, sweeping patterns in the spilled sugar. _When was the last time I ate? _He couldn't remember, it was all a haze of coffee. He didn't feel hungry.

Molly shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the dreamy air the detective was taking. He didn't look well. She didn't want to say anything, but the man was wraith-like, all bones and skin. His eyes were hollow. It made her heart ache in a way she didn't know could apply to Sherlock Holmes. Apparently it did.

She reached across the table and took his hand. Fervently, Molly prayed that she wasn't making a complete fool of herself. Again.

His eyes were tired, as she stood up, still grasping his hand. Turning slowly, as if in a dream, he followed her until they stood verging on the street.

"Please Sherlock. Just do this. For yourself."

**.**

John Watson stood at the top of the stairs of 221B Baker Street. He felt uncomfortable in his own skin, it was too hot, too cold. This feverish quality drove him outdoors, donning his old green jacket and grabbing his cane. He hated it, but for long walks, it was necessary. He worked on his breathing, trying to master something that should have been natural but to no avail. As he limped down the stairs, John gave up and let himself shudder in the darkness before the doorway.

**.**

Sherlock Holmes stood at the door of 221B Baker Street, hand raised to knock, heart pounding wildly. _So this was what fear felt like_, he reflected. But what was he afraid of? John?

**.**

John opened the door and almost ran into a man, waiting there with his hand raised to knock. Mrs. Hudson was trying to rent out 221C despite the mold, there were people in and out of the building all of the time.

"Excuse me." John kept his eyes on the ground, focusing on getting outside before he completely lost whatever control he had left.

"John."

He looked up at the man standing at the door, hand still raised absurdly. Almost as if realizing what he thought, he curled his hand behind his back. The man was tall, with a curly mop of black hair and sharp, angular cheekbones.

Worst were his eyes, two flecks of ice surrounded by the deep bruises of little sleep and lots of nicotine. There was a cut on his cheek, John instinctively reached out to touch his face, the contact jolting him back to reality.

Sherlock Holmes stood before him, a gaunt version of the man he had known, but breathing nonetheless.

"You. You're... dead."

"Apparently not." The detective gave a rueful smile, his lips cracking with the effort.

"No. I- I saw you, Sherlock- _Sherlock. _On the ground. After the cab ride- you-." John paused, feeling his ocean crash over his head until he was fully submerged.

"You were broken." His voice came out strangled, stiff with the tears he hadn't cried.

The detective looked pale, ghostly with his bruised face and dark hair.

"I am." His deep baritone was shaky, and John could see his pulse beating rapidly in his throat. Sherlock swayed on his feet, and John noticed Molly, one hand firmly planted in the small of his back, gesturing up the stairs towards the flat.

"I think you're both going to need to sit down."

John nodded, incapable of coherent thought and grabbed Sherlock's arm, which was startlingly thin. The detective slowly turned to face John and whispered, "Thank you." before allowing himself to be propelled up the stairs.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a day since Sherlock Holmes had turned up beaten and broken on John's doorstep. Molly had stayed with him for the evening, talking to John, patting his hand as Sherlock slept, oblivious to his surroundings. His return reminded John of _after_, when Molly had been all cats and cheeriness and comforting casseroles, hastily baked and often burned. She really had tried.

More than once, John wondered if she had known why. Why Sherlock had decided to throw himself off that goddamn morgue, and why the hell the irony in that man's soul couldn't be beaten. The first place they'd met. The last place they'd been together. A morgue. Sometimes John wondered if death and destruction was following him wherever he went. He was a doctor for God's sake, but instead of healing people, it seemed that he had spent so much time watching his friends die.

Now, John sat alone in his comfortable chair, still facing Sherlock's, lukewarm tea in his hand. As if nothing had happened. Not the accident and not the return and nothing except becoming flatmates with the most fantastic, arrogant man. He let his head rest in his hands, rubbing the non-existent sleep from his eyes. Rest didn't seem to be an option. He stood and paced, back and forth, back and forth, waiting for Sherlock to get up.

When they'd reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock had practically collapsed onto a hastily offered chair. Feeling his training take over, John had demanded when the detective had last eaten. There was a muttered reply of "Coffee- black." The same answer was provided when asked about sleep. John would have rolled his eyes if the man hadn't looked so broken. Maybe he was right. Sherlock was back, but he wasn't fixed. After attempting to feed the detective what was left of last night's dinner (courtesy of Angelo), Molly and John had settled for leaving him under the duvet in John's room.

John checked his phone. Six messages from Molly, telling him to go to bed. One asking if he minded tuna in his casserole. _Now onto the congratulatory casserole? Your flatmate isn't dead! Have some tuna. _

John sighed, knowing he shouldn't feel so irritable about her attempts to help. He probably would have starved if Molly and Mrs. Hudson hadn't pitched in with his cooking. He rubbed his eyes again and stifled a yawn that fought its way out of his lips. John padded down the hall to Sherlock's room, pushing open the door and wincing at the billow of dust that greeted him. The bed was unmade, duvet folded in the corner. His books were piled here and there, the periodic table poster preserved as always, waiting for the detective to come home.

Slowly, John grabbed the duvet, shaking it out and pulling it around his tired shoulders. He climbed onto the bare mattress, feeling himself enveloped in the blankets that smelt like Sherlock, even after all this time. This was what he had not allowed himself to do all those months, when he was waiting for something that couldn't be true. Now, with reassurance that maybe his hopes hadn't been so mislead, John Watson allowed himself to drift into a black sleep, where the gunshots and buildings were farther off than normal and he could rest, wrapped in Sherlock's scent- of cigarettes and spice.

.

Three hours later, John shuddered back into consciousness, feeling the fall echoing in his bones, in the tension of his muscles, braced for impact. He lay there, wrapped in Sherlock's duvet and stared at the ceiling, wondering vaguely when the ceiling had been the subject of the detective's abuse. It was riddled with bullet holes and spray paint. That explained the damp.

John rolled over and pressed his face into the cold mattress, letting everything that had occurred in the past 24 hours rush over him. It was overwhelming really, knowing he was no longer alone. He shivered, the room was frigid, evidence of its missing inhabitant. But was his loneliness over? Really? Who knew if Sherlock would stay. There were too many questions and no answers waiting in this dusty room. John felt his fatigue weighing him down, a constant weight on his shoulders. He tried to suffocate the sobs that choked him, fought their way from his unreliable lips. He couldn't, and resigned himself to lying there, shaking in the early morning light of the bedroom. Nerves of steel. Right. Not anymore.

He heaved a deep sigh and sat up, sliding his feet off the end of the mattress, feeling the cold wood floor collide with his sleep-warmed toes. A low cough got his attention, and he turned, startled.

Sherlock sat in the edge of his bed, perched like a bird with his knees folded to his chest. The detective looked slightly better, but faded nonetheless with his sleep tousled hair and sheet creased face. John stared, still unsure if this was a new reality for him, an old reality in some sense.

Sherlock spoke, sleep still clinging to the edges of his words. "I didn't want to wake you."

"You didn't. Nightmare. The usual." There was a dangerous edge in his tone.

"Afganistan?" Sherlock's face didn't change but there was an anxiety in his voice, that of someone who has everything balanced on the tip of a pin.

"No. Not anymore." John didn't offer anything else on the horrors that awaited him under closed lids, and Sherlock didn't ask.

John changed the subject. "You look like hell, Sherlock."

The detective smiled, "I could say the same about you." His tone was different, there was no showing off this time, no witty comments. There was something tender in his voice, that John couldn't quite recognize.

"I didn't die." John's tone was harsh, filled with the anger and disappointment he'd been struggling with for a whole year. A year spent mourning for someone who hadn't died. He clenched his hands, trying to keep this suddenly overwhelming anger under control.

Sherlock's jawline was tense as he spoke. "I- John, forgive me."

John turned away, crossing his arms. The silence in the room was deafening. Hesitantly, Sherlock reached over and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I didn't- I didn't want to leave you." He broke off, unsure of what else to say.

"John- I'm sorry. I really am."

"SORRY?" John exploded, anger flaring in the early morning peace. He turned, eyes flashing. "You sod, you _died, _I watched you fall off a building and you think that sorry is going to cut it? You could have just left, you didn't have to die to get rid of me Sherlock. I didn't depend on you."

"But no, always with the goddamn theatrics so you throw yourself off a building in front of me, I watch them scrape you off the pavement and THEN YOU DECIDE TO COME BACK." He was shouting, still wrapped in a duvet, now standing at the edge of the bed.

"Do you know what it's like to be the person who has to live? I had to live EVERY SINGLE DAY knowing that the instant I closed my eyes, all I would see was you, falling. There aren't any gunshots anymore, just-" Here he stopped, afraid of tumbling into some emotional abyss he'd avoided for a year.

"You have no idea. Damn it Sherlock. Why?" He trembled as he got back on the mattress, lying down and turning away from Sherlock so his distress wouldn't be visible.

He was curled up on his side as he felt Sherlock lie down next to him, flat on his back. Long, bruised fingers rested on John's shoulder, rubbing small circles into his skin with the pad of his thumb. Slowly, John moved over to lie on his back, unfurling himself. Sherlock removed his hand and stared at the ceiling.

They stayed like this for a long while, both slowly drifting off to sleep, understanding that nothing could be said that would make this right.

As the day went on, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson succumbed to the sleep neither of them had had for ages. They rested, breath in sync, moving until their limbs entwined unconsciously. It was strange kind of peace for these men who had been running for so long, fighting themselves more than others. But in the stillness that the evening brought with it in dark blue waves, they were peaceful, hands clasped. And there was no-one to tear them apart in that darkness. Not anymore.

They awoke at the same time and said nothing, looking silently at each other before stumbling to the kitchen for much needed tea and toast. There was a tuna casserole sitting on the counter, as well as fresh milk in the fridge. Mrs. Hudson had evidently let Molly in while they had been sleeping. Sherlock grimaced at the thought of tuna, muttering something about not liking fish, but John ignored this, preparing food for them methodically. They sat together at the kitchen table, John reading the paper and Sherlock pacing between bites of food, taken only when John glared at him.

Finishing their hastily prepared meal, John watched Sherlock from the table, who leaned against the window pane, nose pressed against the glass, looking out into the street. How was it possible to love someone, yet want to throttle them three quarters of the time? John watched the glass fog up with Sherlock's breath, condensation collecting, yet another sign of his vitality. How was this happening?

"I left because I had to, John. It was about you." John stiffened, feeling the ever familiar fear of rejection creep back into his heart. Almost as if feeling this himself, Sherlock continued.

"I feared for your safety... I had a choice to make. Either I lived or you did. So I chose the easy way out, I decided to die." There was a silence, filled with nothing but ragged breathing.

Finally, John nodded, understanding and feeling ice water coat his insides. "No-one wants to survive and feel that guilt. Not even Sherlock Holmes could handle it."

Sherlock shook his head, still gazing out the window determinedly. "But you could. I knew you could."

This scene reminded John so much of that day, before Sherlock had ran out that door, taking with him a piece of John's heart that he hadn't been aware of ever giving up.

John stood and pulled on his coat which had been hanging on the sideboard.

Sherlock stared.

"Where are you going?"

John tensed. "Out." He turned on his heel and stopped in the doorway, pulling on his worn brown shoes. John took the stairs two at a time, exiting the flat as quickly as possible. Sherlock beat him to the door.

"John, stop, be rational. You're letting your anger cloud your judgement."

John turned, anger a dull buzz in his ears. "Since when do you give a damn about what I think?"

Sherlock frowned, puzzled by this accusation. "You know I care John, I've told you before, you're my only friend."

"Friends don't do this to each other, and you can't just saunter back in to my life like nothing happened. A lot happened. I cannot believe you could be so- such-." Here John paused, gritting his teeth in an attempt to stop his rage from boiling over.

"A machine."

With that John walked out the door, speeding down the street, forgetting his cane and trying to calm his broken heart.

Sherlock stood in the darkness behind the door of 221B, missing the days when the only complex things in his life were murders and take-away. He climbed the stairs slowly, and found his coat where John had left it last night. In it, he found his little brown box, and opened the lid with bruised and trembling fingers. Perhaps it was time for a different type of solution, one that differed from offered and rejected apologies. It was simple. It was rational.

He held the syringe up to the light, and flicked it once. And then he waited for elation.


End file.
